


so it goes (and so will you soon)

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Gallows Humor, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Reapers, kind of, not as bad as the tags sound i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: The man who’d introduced himself as Andrés adjusts his fedora and Martín goes back to picking at his nails. Tiny bits of dried blood fall, melting onto the damp pavement. His skin is coated up to his elbows in reddish-brown. It almost looks like paint.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	so it goes (and so will you soon)

**Author's Note:**

> please read the TWs in the tags - none of it is graphic and is discussed lightheartedly though
> 
> fic title from the billy joel song 'and so it goes'
> 
> this is based on a short story i handed in for a uni assessment and which my prof was not a fan of (that's a good sign, right?)

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, his voice raspy from the cigarette he’d just finished in about half his normal time.

Martín shrugs, picking rust-coloured flakes from under his nails.

“No come on, you have to tell me. I’ve not seen anything that gory in a long time. What was it about? Did he owe you money? Did he cheat on you with your grandmother? With his grandmother?”

“No.” Martín’s tone is sharp. “Jesus, you’re sick.”

“Señor, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to be criticising other people.”

The man who’d introduced himself as Andrés adjusts his fedora and Martín goes back to picking at his nails. Tiny bits of dried blood fall, melting onto the damp pavement. His skin is coated up to his elbows in reddish-brown. It almost looks like paint.

“I didn’t mean to, you know,” Martín says quietly, looking up at Andrés who is sat next to him.

Andrés goes to light up again, but finds his golden cigarette case empty. Instead, he produces a pipe from inside his heavily embroidered jacket. It’s long, bleached white, and made from the bone of a long-extinct animal. Martín kind of wants to ask what it’s made of, but decides against it.

“Is that right? What happened then? You tripped and fell and accidentally tied him to a chair? Then you slipped and removed three molars, seven finger nails, and a couple of toes?” Andrés smirks, adjusting his cufflinks, teeth flashing in the light from the streetlamps.

Martín scowls and Andrés keeps grinning, but stops listing body parts.

They sit in silence, watching the cars move through the town, their passengers entirely unaware of the gruesome deeds that had occurred at number just a few metres away from them. Martín keeps picking at the dried blood, while the other man contentedly smokes his pipe, occasionally expelling puffs of purple vapour into the evening sky.

When the number 17 bus has gone past them four times, Andrés carefully taps the ashes out onto the street and puts his pipe away again.

“Still not going to tell me why you did it then? You know that’s kind of the whole point of me being here.”

Martín scrubs at his forearms, more dark flakes drifting down like especially belligerent dandruff from a put upon scalp.

“Might as well get it over with and just tell me. You’ll have to explain yourself eventually,” Andrés says, in what he thinks is his most persuasive tone of voice. Martín doesn’t respond and Andrés lets him ignore him for another few minutes. A couple of the flakes land on his obnoxiously shiny shoes and his lip curls in disgust. He flicks them off and Martín gives a half smirk at his obvious annoyance, while more blood rains onto the ground next to his feet.

“Oh for goodness sake, that’s not coming off!” Andrés snarls, gesturing at the blood on Martín’s hands. “Your hands are literally and metaphorically stained with blood so would you stop fidgeting and tell me why you did it.”

Martín stills, glaring at him as best he can with his overlong fringe falling in his eyes. He fidgets, shifting back and forth on the wet ground.

Finally, he speaks. “He just deserved it, alright? I wanted to make him pay and I wanted him to apologise.”

Andrés leans back, bracing his elbows on the damp pavement. “You know, that’s a new one for me. I don’t think anyone has ever done that just to make someone apologise to them.” Martín seems a little offended, but Andrés ploughs on regardless. “I mean, that was never going to work, was it?”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Martín snaps.

Andrés shrugs. “Common sense… it didn’t work, did it?”

Martín shakes his head numbly, for the first time in more time than Andrés would care to count he feels a flash of pity.

“What exactly did he do – you said he deserved it?” he asks, hoping this time he’ll receive an answer.

Dark blue eyes narrow, then Martín’s shoulders slump. He gestures at his face. It’s sallow, there’s the shadow of a bruise on his jaw, and little scars dapple the delicate skin under his eyes. He looks tired.

“Fucked up my face, my life… everything really.”

Andrés feels the absurd urge to apologise to this man. Instead, he wiggles his fingers towards the house in a vague sort of gesture. “Right. So you regret it, do you? The whole…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Martín retorts sharply.

“Well I suppose that answers that question,” Andrés says, holding Martín’s gaze for a moment. “Come along then, we’d better go. The police will be here soon.”

Martín’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. “You’re going to help me escape?”

Andrés opens his mouth, letting out an approximation of a laugh that makes the hair on Martín’s arms stand on end. “Martín,” he says, once he’s stopped making that sound. “You don’t need to escape. The police can’t exactly arrest a corpse.”

Martín blinks a little stupidly at him, “I’m dead?”

“Was that not made clear to you when we first met?” Andrés questions and Martín shakes his head. “Then who did you think you were talking to this whole time?” Martín just stares blankly and Andrés sighs. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter anymore and we really should get going.”

He gets to his feet and carefully brushes off his neatly pressed slacks. He offers a hand to Martín to help him up and he takes it, confusion still plain on his face. Andrés enjoys the pulse of warmth from his hand – it’s been decades since he’s felt anything like that.

“Why are you dressed like you’re going to an opera?” Martín asks out of the blue.

Andrés looks down at himself. “Hm? Oh, well I wouldn’t wear this to the opera, it’s not black tie. But it’s one of my preferred forms to appear in – it’s a bit easier on your human brain. Well, the part of it that isn’t sprayed all over your kitchen. Now let’s move, we’re on a schedule and you’ve held us up enough. But don’t worry, there won’t be any of that silly going into the light stuff. Frankly, where you’re headed there won’t be an awful lot of bright spots.”

He starts walking away from the house and Martín finds himself following him, his hand still in Andrés’, feet moving of their own accord.

“There now, that’s not so hard, is it? Wave goodbye. This is the last time you’ll see… any of this I suppose,” Andrés says.

Martín does as he’s told, raising a limp hand, and waves solemnly at the house with a cast iron 38 bolted to the door and a blood-stained garden path. He walks with Andrés, fingers wrapped tightly around his frigid hand.

It seems to be getting darker and darker around them, and Martín shivers.

“Andrés?” he asks quietly and he can barely see the other man.

“Yes?”

“Will it hurt?”

Andrés does that thing again – the one that sounds absolutely nothing like a laugh, yet is one. “No, Martín it doesn’t hurt, it’s just… nothing.”

“Oh,” Martín says quietly. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“Oh.”

Andrés sighs. “I suppose if you want to go see someone before you go, I can make an exception and allow it just this once.”

“That’s alright.” Martín shakes his head. “I don’t have anyone to see, but…”

“But?” Andrés prompts when the other man trails off without continuing.

Martín disentangles his hand from where it was still clasping Andrés’. He hesitates just briefly, then reaches up to grab Andrés’ face and pull him into a kiss. It lasts seconds for a human, an infinitely smaller fraction of time for Andrés, but he feels it lingering like a brand.

“Why?” he asks and Martín shrugs.

“You’re pretty handsome and… you listened. I guess I just wanted to feel something before whatever nothing feels like takes over.”

Andrés blinks – he doesn’t think he’s blinked in centuries. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Martín says, sounding unapologetic. “I guess it’s weird to kiss a demon.”

“Reaper,” Andrés corrects automatically. “But yes, it is.”

A small smirk spreads across Martín’s mouth. “Well, I’ve been reliably informed that I’m weird before.”

Andrés considers him for a moment, considers how much trouble he’s going to get into for this. “How do you feel about dead people?” he asks.

Martín makes a non-committal gesture. “I haven’t thought about it much, they’re a part of life, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Andrés says, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “In that case, forget about nothingness – you’ve got a job interview.”

“What?” Martín asks.

Andrés reaches for his hand again. “You’ll see.”

Martín still looks confused, but he squeezes Andrés’ hand – and there’s that warmth again. “Alright, let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> you know the drill, i love your kudos/comments or scream at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


End file.
